


Untitled Clubbing Scene

by Stultiloquentia



Series: Genderqueer Blaine [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Clubbing, Genderqueer Character, Other, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Vibrators, genderqueer!Blaine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:52:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stultiloquentia/pseuds/Stultiloquentia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Keep the control, darling," Rosa leans up to murmur in his ear, "or else bring it back to me and I'll keep it safe until I see somebody worthy of you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Clubbing Scene

**Author's Note:**

> More sketch than fic. Part one of maybe.

I've been wanting to write about a genderqueer character, so I started daydreaming Blaine. Today he's female-bodied, stone butch and comfortable in his skin; uses male pronouns mostly for convenience' sake, as he passes more often than not. Small enough breasts that a sports bra or light binder flattens them right out. Owns packers, wears them inconsistently. Has a remarkably easy time of it, all things considered, thanks to that same, familiar, off-the-charts charisma and happy-go-lucky affect. Bowties and highwaters all the way down.

After the disastrous Sadie Hawkins dance (and there's a story about that, but it's not this story), he attended Crawford Country Day, then Carmel High ("I want to sing there," was true, but also a cover for, "I hate these skirts!"), where he befriended Sunny Corazon. They moved to NYC together, Blaine for music, Sunny for peace and justice studies.

So it's senior year, and Blaine goes out to a kinky dance club with Sunny and four friends, one couple and the rest freewheelers, but all happy to dance and make out with each other and enjoy being twenty-one and hot and brash and kinky poly queer.

It's called Rosy's, owned by one Rosalyn Hind, this gorgeous, matronly dame who made her name as a pioneering lesbian feminist pornographer in the seventies—activist, mentor, sex worker, educator—until she bought this thing as a sort of semi-retirement project. It hosts kink workshops by day, and dance classes and pop-up cupcake shops and blood drives and whatever the fuck else she feels like, and dances and shows by night, sometimes burlesque, sometimes live music, sometimes themed parties. And some of it's open to the public, and other events are really damned exclusive, i.e. you have to take one of Mama Rosa's classes before you're allowed in. The atmosphere, even on an average dance night, has a reputation for being consent-conscious and inclusive, thanks in large part to the force of its owner's personality, which permeates every nook and cranny of the place.

And among her multitudinous talents, Rosa possesses a legendary sixth sense for matchmaking. Whether she's amusing herself with engineering a one-night stand or a life-long partnership (and they're not always romantic/sexual/kinky, sometimes just fortuitous business connections), her intuition is such that everybody who's been coming here long enough to have heard a tale or two wonders, _What if she's in the mood tonight? What if she looks at **me**?_ There's an AU where Dawn Summers and Isaac Lahey meet this way. Alas, she sometimes has a hopelessly puckish sense of humour about it. Please, she's not going to do all the work for you. But if you walk in the door and Rosa happens to be bouncing that night and she looks you up and down and hands you a single puzzle tile, you'd better take it.

Occasionally, it's not a puzzle tile. She does run a sex club, after all.

On the night Blaine and his friends go clubbing, she's got a couple sets of remote-controlled butterfly vibes tucked in a box under her chair. 

Helena's done some volunteering here before, so when she sees a friend in the antechamber, they stop to chat, and Blaine catches the eye of the dark, buxom woman enthroned on the velvet wing chair a few feet away. He smiles reflexively, and she beams back at him and actually beckons, like a benevolent version of Ursula from _The Little Mermaid_ , sharp eyebrows and effortlessly scarlet lipstick.

She extends her greetings ("Hello, love,") and chats with him for a minute (decides she likes him: he's cheeky and happy and weirdly _courtly_ , which is a hell of a thing to pull off in the outfit he's wearing) before she winks and offers him a present. Blaine takes the slim, flat box and turns it over in his hands, eyebrow going up. His friends are bouncing and hooting beside him, but he knows the instant he shakes his head "no," they'll back down. Blaine's in the mood to nod "yes."

"Keep the control, darling," Rosa leans up to murmur in his ear, "or else bring it back to me and I'll keep it safe until I see somebody worthy of you."

So if I'm actually writing this then I write Blaine taking a detour through the bathroom, and then back to Rosa to slip something into her hand before he descends into the bowels of the club. The shadowy, frescoed staircase spits him out into a cavernous two-story space, part lounge and bar, part dance floor, part stage. Instead of cages or poles for go-go dancers in the middle of the floor, the walls are pocked with elevated alcoves where figures writhe behind dark scrims. As Blaine watches, strobe lights flicker to life inside two of the alcoves, illuminating a man and a woman gyrating in genderbent underwear. The crowd whoops. Blaine takes a moment to whistle along with them, then plunges into the fray.

It... isn't like wearing a packer, which he can don in the morning and then actually mostly forget about, at least superficially, as he goes about his day. It just becomes part of who he is, and sure, it changes his carriage just a little, and the timbre of his voice, but the packer, for all that it's in the shape of a sex organ, isn't really about sex.

This, on the other hand. Someone, out there on the dance floor, or at the bar, could have, at any moment, the power to wring an orgasm from his body. Just the thought of it is enough to get his briefs damp.

He finds his friends, who stretch their hands out for him and draw him in and kiss his cheeks like he's the fucking birthday boy. They dance, and touch, and it takes a while for him to parse what he's seeing in their glances, until he realizes it's protectiveness, simmering ever-so-gently underneath the affection and pleasure and bawdy amusement of the group. Blaine smiles, shuts his eyes, and gives himself over to the beat. For more than an hour, the vibe is nothing but a tantalizing accessory, a slight pressure against his clit. He could be here all night without anything happening, and he's okay with that, truly; it just means Mama Rose's standards are exacting.

But then, just shy of midnight: it starts almost ticklingly soft, not positioned quite right, but Blaine's jolt nearly knocks his drink off the bar, and oh holy god, oh god. He feels wildly self-conscious, but pricked with excitement, and he bolts back to the center of the room to find Sunny and dance with her: someone to lean on and clutch. She cackles at him and runs her hands up and down his sides and pushes and pulls his hips to make him swivel and grind into it. It stops abruptly and he buries his face in her neck and pants, and she makes him turn around so they're back to front and he's heaving in full view of the dance floor, though really not many people are paying them any mind. He throws his head back and swallows and his blood pulses in his genitals.

And then they keep dancing. Blaine gets his legs back under himself and goes to the washroom to clean up a little, but he keeps the vibe there.

*

Kurt and his friends are having a fuck off night—term coined by one Adam Crawford. They are having this one in honor of André's boyfriend's homophobic asshat parents, who may not have succeeded in ruining Christmas, but came close. Dancing up a storm in a club that on weekdays hosts sex machine performance art and workshops on how to take it up the ass may not be Kurt's own personal go-to act of defiance, but he certainly understands the impulse. He is here to support his friend and dance up a storm.

Kurt, at twenty-one, is more social in some ways than canon!Kurt, and more solitary in others. He has a more diverse and worldly group of friends, but has never been laid low, with love or fright or anything else, by any of them. He's self-contained. Up until college, he still had daydreams of being swept off his feet by a tall, broad-shouldered, jock-ish savior. Not as aware of his own powers or inclinations, he was swept off his feet by Adam during his first semester at NYADA, then surprised by his own restlessness, in spite of all of Adam's sweetness. When Adam went back to the UK, they ended things amicably. Kurt got to keep the Apples, though.

He got the Dad speech at some point about having sex for the right reasons, but by this time he has modified it for himself: sex can be fun and healthy without heralding a life-long commitment.

So then there would have to be some stuff about Kurt arriving at the club and catching Rosa's eye and acquiring the control to Blaine's vibrator and what Kurt thinks of such shenanigans. Why does she notice him? He's striking, certainly. Covering more skin than his friends, though the cut of his clothes is flawless, a tease as calculated as any of the brazenly sexual get-ups strutting past. It's one of these get-ups that does the trick: a fallen silk flower and the offer of a tiny safety pin, procured apparently from nowhere, almost before the wearer has noticed the mishap. He makes her laugh as he reattaches it, a silly pun about Condé Nast, fingers quick and expert. 

Rosa calls him over. Is he single? He is. Does he like boys? Select boys, yes. She explains what she's holding in her hand. As Kurt's palm hovers over hers, she tips his chin up with one finger. His eyes flash at the invasion of personal space, but all Rosa does is hold his gaze and offer a single instruction: "Pay attention."

So Kurt takes it, feeling strange and intrigued and, laughing at himself, like he's been bestowed some great and terrible honour, until he makes his way to the dance floor, and looks out at the writhing flux of bodies. And then he feels all of sixteen again, fumbling with his satchel as he passes cheerleader PDA in the hallway at McKinley High, not knowing where to look, judgmental and vaguely queasy, but hot all over. Finds that, all by accident, he's flicked the thing on. He slaps it back off like _he's_ the one caught masturbating. Turns on his heel and strides for the bar.

One cranberry vodka later, the crowd feels bearable, and Kurt puts his phone away and goes to find a dance partner. André materializes, and they shimmy together, united in their complicated feelings about Depeche Mode, until Joe reclaims his boyfriend and Kurt drifts further into the crowd.

He dances alone. He dances for while with a man dressed as a Spartan slave, and eventually realizes that under the eyeliner it _is_ Ethan from last year's production of _Lysistrata_ , and makes his polite escape. He accepts a shyly offered dance from a collared sub the size of a linebacker while his slender dom presses up against his other side. He spins away again. A line of drag queens sashays past. 

As Kurt turns to admire them one of them calls to someone on their far side. He follows the motion, and catches sight of a pair of Mick Jagger hips twitching inside a pair of trousers that, in daylight, Kurt would have side-eyed and dismissed as castaways from a department store juniors aisle in the mid-nineties—except that the dark, smoky purple velvet looks textured and touchable in a sea of too much leather, and the fit is flawless. Kurt's eyes travel up the neat, strong torso to the head of dark hair. And then the owner of the purple velvet pants pivots, to trade flirtations with the queen, and Kurt catches an impression of black brows, lickable sideburns, full lips, and strong, straight collarbones, before his jaw drops. Those are breasts. Small ones, maybe even smaller than Rachel's, but—Kurt blinks, second-guessing—no, male torsos with that kind of musculature do not have those kinds of curves. The mesh top falls in a loose cling, catching lightly on the dancer's nipples before skimming down across a toned set of abs.

The music pounds. Half the club is trying to find release against the seams of their jeans. 

Kurt's hand drifts to his pocket. His fingers quest along the grooves of Mama Rosa's little scrap of plastic and he watches dreamily as the dancer's hand flashes out to brace against the shoulder of the diminutive Asian woman at his side. Sunny coos and grinds deeper into the beat, pulling Blaine with her, and then she's looking around her, eyes sharp and narrowed. Her glance slides right over Kurt. Blaine's though? Blaine has authorial intention on his side, cutting straight through the strobe lights and semi-darkness and bad odds. Blaine is coming apart on the dance floor, in the arms of his best friend, and opens his heavy lids to find Kurt Hummel struck still, not ten steps away. Kurt... is not quite sure what to do with the fact that he wants to dig his thumbs into those bruise-colored pants. 

Blaine's heartrate's been spiking all evening at the sight of anyone with head bent and thumb pressed to an object in their hand, no matter how often it's been followed by the blue glow of a cell phone. Now it's stuck on double time; and all Blaine can see of the cautiously approaching figure is that he's slim and tall; he's got his hand curled close to his chest, until he starts to lower it as if he wants to give the thing he's holding back to Blaine, and that can't happen, no. Blaine steps back and the stranger stops, choreographically quick. He draws breath to speak, and that... that is a good chest, dancer's proportions, who is he?... but Blaine looks up into his eyes—in the brief, sweeping pass of a spotlight his irises are winter blue—and hears himself say, "Do it again." 

Kurt stares down—at a shock of whiskey-shot hazel courtesy of the same Fresnel lens—then flips the control back into his fist, bracelets clinking, and backs away into the crowd, vanished in five heartbeats. The thing pulses once in promise, then cuts out.

Blaine blinks slowly at the crush of bodies closed up in Kurt's wake like a thicket in a fairy tale. He closes his eyes, raises his bent arms above his head so the fishnet weave of his top stretches tight and dirty across his unbound tits, exhales, and dances. He's compelling, he's a double-take, and, here, it's safe to know it.

The scrims come up. The floorshow tease turns into all-out burlesque, the alcoves lit up and filled with besequined dancers. Some nights they're Fosse-esque on chairs, or unwrapped layer by layer by dark-clad stage hands. Other nights the scrims shield real couples. Now they're clad like characters out of myth, Eurydice and Orpheus and the Iron Queen, Eros and blindfolded Psyche. 

It's a well-timed distraction.

The frustration becomes insupportable around 2:30 AM. The vibe hasn't twitched in forty minutes, and Blaine hasn't caught a glimpse of his tormentor in twice that. Helena told him not too long ago that the girls are probably going to catch a cab home around three. Blaine is overheated from dancing, nervy and strung out with arousal, but he's starting to nurse a thread of annoyance alongside it. The song changes: "[French Kiss](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UIX9t1fw8ZM)" by Lil Louis, ubiquitous eighties house hit, and of course Blaine knows it, and knows how it ends: it ain't pretty. He winds through the crowd and up the stairs, chased by the throbbing, sex-drenched beat, and shoves open the door to a unisex bathroom. He's not entirely sure whether he's going to tear the damned vibrator off or cram his hand underneath it and rub until he comes.

Kurt is fixing his hair at the sink.

Blaine's startlement makes him slam the door all the way back on its jamb, which makes Kurt jump. And Blaine stares, because the first thing he registers in the stark, unflattering-to-all-earthly-creatures light is that the creature in front of him is gorgeous. And the second thing he realizes is—

"You! _Tyrant_!"

Kurt's eyebrows rocket up. He draws himself up to his full height and glares back. It's the first time he's seen Blaine outside of a strobe light, too. After a brief geologic age, he seems to have summed up the situation, and he paces the few steps across the tile, until he's quite inside Blaine's personal space, and mildly suggests, sparkling blue gaze fastened on Blaine's lips, "Well, perhaps you should organize a coup."

Blaine kicks the door shut. He hauls Kurt around by his shirtfront and pins him on it. One blunt hand snakes down and shoves once, then twice, to get right down _inside_ the front left pocket of Kurt's jeans. Lucky guess. Kurt's shocked gasp fills Blaine's ears as his fingertips curl around the remote control and tug it up, out, knuckles snagging on denim and the crease of Kurt's thigh.

He brings the remote up to eye level, whispers, "Good idea," and flicks it on.

Behind them, the door thumps. Kurt springs away, grasping Blaine by the arm. He hustles them out and strides, long-legged, down the low-lit hallway to another shallow alcove, the dance floor partially visible behind and below them through a thick, squat colonnade. And "French Kiss" is finally hitting its filthy breakdown: a female voice moaning in wordless pleasure, softly, barely audible beneath the synth, then with increasing urgency. Kurt insinuates one long thigh between Blaine's legs, and spans his hands, cool from tap water, around his waist. His eye contact might be the sexiest thing Blaine has ever felt. "Turn it up."

Blaine thumbs the little device again and lets himself moan out a soft, "oh." The semi-darkness feels both intimate and thrilling, and Blaine is quaking with both the literal sensations charging through him and the way it's happening, the sudden, uncanny wave he and his partner are riding together.

His hips start to move in slow, helpless rolls, and before even a measure has passed Kurt has caught the motion. Sweat at his temples and gooseflesh up and down his sides, and dear god, who is he?

"You want to finish?" and it's said not like a tease or a power play, but a genuine inquiry, and Blaine meets Kurt's eyes again and finds them intent and sincere. "Yes, please," he whispers like a secret, and Kurt gathers him close and Blaine tucks his face into the most perfect curve of shoulder and there's a hand slipping down between them, cupping him and pressing the vibe against him, fuck, right there, right there. Pressing harder, so that he's squirming on it, lifted against Kurt's hand and Kurt's thigh, so that it's all he can feel, the fat, unmerciful buzz, rattling up into his whole pelvis. He convulses in Kurt's arms. The music hisses and surges around him, and Kurt's hips rock in time, and he's got one arm locked around Kurt's neck and the other clutching his elbow, and he comes and comes and it feels like gasping in oxygen after a long, deep dive.


End file.
